Still Bored?
by ChromeTangerine
Summary: What began as Sherlock dealing with a particularly intense bout of boredom has bloomed into the makings of a touching love story full of angst, anger, regret, and heartache. (Meant to be a one-shot, but to hell with it! :P)
1. Chapter 1

_Bored._

He looked down at his hands, slender and pale and idle.

_Boooored!_

"John!" Sherlock peered around the flat. No one answered. Dammit, had he left again? Why does he always DO that? With an exasperated groan Sherlock flopped onto the couch and crossed his arms, melting into Sulk Mode.

Sherlock remained in that position for four hours, barely moving, until the flat door ushered John into the room.

"John, I was calling for you," Sherlock informed him crossly. John rolled his eyes and peeled his coat off.

"If I'm not mistaken, we've had this conversation before. I was out, Sherlock." John breezed into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to his fuming.

John began making tea without truly paying attention to what he was doing, focusing on the thoughts that randomly skated about his mind—bills, work, his new girlfriend Kelly, Sherlock.

Sherlock? Not usually one of John's tea-time subjects of contemplation. But as John heated the water, his mind abandoned other things and wrapped itself around Sherlock. Sherlock's bad moods, Sherlock's insensitivity, Sherlock's rude corrections of everything John said… Sherlock's midnight-colored curls, Sherlock's wit and intelligence, Sherlock's slender build and effortless elegance.

What?

"Joooohn," Sherlock called from upstairs, shattering John's train of thought. John looked down and saw a mug of hot tea in his hand and wondered vaguely just how it had gotten there. "John! Come here, will you?" John frowned.

"Just a moment, alright?" With a few mind-clearing shakes of his head, John went to Sherlock, who just so happened to be standing in John's room.

"What are you doing in here? Wh—are you going through my things?" Sherlock sat cross-legged on John's bed, carefully going through a box of John's things. John snatched a picture of himself in the army out of Sherlock's hands and proceeded to roughly confiscate the box as well. Sherlock looked up at John, obviously unabashed by John's anger.

"Bored."

This pushed John over the edge. He dropped the box and the picture and jumped at Sherlock, arms outstretched. Sherlock's face displayed barely registered shock before a flurry of not-as-solid-as-they-could-be blows showered him.

"Just-because-you-are-bored-does-not-give-you-permission-to-," John began, punctuating each word with a punch.

"Sorry!" came the muffled reply. Sherlock was trying desperately to cover his face with his forearms. John stopped, breathing hard.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his pale eyes wide. John was straddling the other man and he only just noticed. With a heavy blush John removed himself from the bed entirely and sighed. "It-it's alright, Sherlock. Just… ah."

Sherlock's nose was bleeding gently. John could feel the guilt already knotting in his stomach. "Oh, come here," John said, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him to the bathroom.

"Johd, I cad take care ob byself," Sherlock mumbled through the blood, edging away from John and his fistful of tissues.

"No you can't." John held the back of Sherlock's head and pressed the tissues to his nose, angling Sherlock's head down over the sink. Sherlock didn't argue.

As John doctored London's only consulting detective, his mind drifted back to his tea-making thoughts. Essentially, Sherlock.

"John, I think it's done bleeding," Sherlock said, gently pulling John's hand from his face. John dampened a rag and wiped the dried blood off of Sherlock's nose and mouth. He found himself staring into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock found himself staring right back, taking in the careful, concerned look on John's face. The way John smelled—tea and mint and shampoo. Sherlock traced the light shadow that fell from John's chin to his collarbone with a single finger.

Abruptly John stood up and shifted his weight, looking down at the tiled floor. "Well, er, there. Sorry for, y'know, attacking you."

"John," Sherlock said, in an almost seductive whisper.

"Y-yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm still bored," he murmured, an evil smile tilting his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm still bored."

John raised his eyebrows, feeling his heart beat ever so slightly faster. "Well, that's not good, is it?" John asked, a little nervously.

"No," Sherlock said, leaning in until his face was mere inches from John's. "It's not good. At all." He looked deeply into John's eyes, one eyebrow arched and his mouth quirked in a mischievous smile, taking in John's dilated pupils and heavy breathing. But it was only for a moment—before John even felt the impact of Sherlock's proximity and arousing behavior, Sherlock was walking out of the flat with his coat in his hand.

"I'll be back in a few hours, John. Keep an eye out for any new cases."

John still stood in the bathroom, with a dawning sense of comprehension and dread taking over him.

"Nope. No way." John stormed out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. _I am NOT in love with Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock found himself walking slower than usual, probably because he usually had somewhere to be. But this time, Sherlock was only walking because he needed to be somewhere that wasn't 221B Baker Street.

Already he felt the effect John had on him ebbing away, and Sherlock felt slightly relieved. He had absolutely no idea what had happened, and he had had no control over himself whatsoever during the bathroom encounter. He had no control over anything anymore.

Sherlock ducked into a quaint tourist shop to escape the crowded, oppressive London streets. He quickly hid himself in an obscure corner and sank into thought, disguising himself by looking through a book about plants indigenous to London, which of course he already knew all about.

His eyes snaked over the words without really reading them. In his mind, Sherlock saw John in black and white, like an old movie—his smile, his posture that reflected his time in the army, all the things that made John, John. Sherlock silently cursed himself. After all, Sherlock didn't love _anybody _but his work.

So what was this strange feeling, this fluttering of his heart and the knot in his stomach? He had never felt anything like it before.

"Excuse me, sir," said a young female voice behind Sherlock. He turned his head to see a very nervous looking employee looking at him. "Um… I have to ask you to leave… you're sort of, uhm—."

"Oh, shut up. You're embarrassing yourself. And you should probably stop smoking whatever he's giving you. It's ravaging your complexion." Sherlock swept out of the store, his coat billowing behind him, leaving a very startled girl in his wake.

John was still home when Sherlock got back to the flat. He was sitting on the couch with a novel in his hand, obviously trying to be engrossed in whatever it was saying. Sherlock chose to bite back his sarcastic comment and hung his coat and his scarf up, opting to conduct a huge, messy experiment in the kitchen just to annoy John.

"Sherlock, I've got a girl coming over tonight, so try not to make too big of a mess in the kitchen," John said absently. Sherlock frowned. John can't have deducted what Sherlock was thinking, because he wasn't clever enough to do that.

"Well you'll have to take her somewhere else, because I've got work to do," Sherlock quipped. John looked up and rolled his eyes, tossing the novel down.

"Fine. You know what, fine? I'll see you in the morning, Sherlock." John grabbed his coat and left the flat, leaving the air thick and heavy. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall: seven thirty.

It was a long time until morning.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello all. Break's over soon and I won't be updating nearly as much as I wish I could D: But I will never abandon my doctor and my detective! Or you guys. :P_

It was nearly eight thirty in the morning when John's door opened. It barely squeaked, gently disturbing the air before it latched closed again. John didn't wake up, instead remaining dead to the world.

In fact, John didn't stir until there was a curly head of hair pressed between his shoulder blades and long, elegant legs draped over his own.

"Hm…mmm," John sighed, his sleep-fogged mind not fully registering Sherlock's presence. "You're quite warm, aren't you." He snuggled deeper into the detective's embrace.

"Surprisingly, normally I'm very cold," Sherlock mumbled. John's eyes flew open and he rolled out of the bed with a quickness.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing _in my bed_?" Sherlock blinked once, but said nothing, choosing to remain buried in John's sheets. This infuriated John even more. "You can't just… get comfortable in _my_ bed whenever the hell you want!"

"Well it seems I can," Sherlock said with aplomb. John sighed and pressed his finger and thumb into his eyes until he saw shadows.

"Sherlock. What is going on with you? Tell me, before I kill you, please," John asked. Sherlock rolled onto his back and stretched himself out, his t-shirt lifting to expose pale white skin above striped pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock kept a close eye on John, his experiment rolling into progress. John showed no outside changes, but to Sherlock's inescapable gaze the proof was covered in neon lights—the dilation of pupils, the slight change in breathing, the barely noticeable rise of color under John's eyes and above the collar of his shirt. Sherlock smirked and placed himself in front of John so it was impossible for the blonde to escape.

"John. I have this… feeling." John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who's smirk had suddenly faded. "I don't know what to make of it. It's origin and purpose completely escape me. All I know is that you, everything about you, is what causes it." Sherlock closed his mouth and waited for John to speak.

The doctor knew Sherlock would say nothing until asked. He looked into Sherlock's eyes with a slightly suspicious squint. "And… what is this emotion you're so inexplicably feeling?"

"I do believe it's infatuation." John blinked and tilted his head with a frown.

"I'm sorry, are you saying you're infatuated with me?"

"Well I wouldn't call it love. It's only started just a few days ago, when you were hitting me so mercilessly and—," here Sherlock flicked the tip of his tongue against his top lip, "so very, very hard."

"Sherlock that—that's lust," John stuttered, coloring all over. Sherlock frowned and tented his fingers, pacing back and forth.

"Lust…"

_lust/ləst/_

_Noun: Very strong sexual desire._

_Verb: Have a very strong sexual desire for someone._

_Synonyms: noun. desire - craving - longing - passion – concupiscence_

_verb. crave - hanker - desire - yearn - covet - thirst – long_

Sherlock's pale, chilled eyes widened and he clapped his hands. With speed that would have shamed even the horniest of men, Sherlock reached out and snatched John close to him, pressing their mouths together. John easily complied, moving his mouth against Sherlock's before slipping his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, tasting warmth and black coffee. Sherlock almost reluctantly broke the kiss to stare deeply into John's eyes.

"Yes… lust seems to fit the description well."


End file.
